


the epitome of free will

by cirque_de_reves (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Oneshot, M/M, destiel decides to become canon, happy endings, isn't it romantic, something to jubilantly cry about on rainy evenings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cirque_de_reves
Summary: there isn't much to explain. this is the first fic i've uploaded (but not the first one i've written) and it's just a destiel oneshot where lots of pent up feelings are admitted by both parties in a (very) short and sweet dialogue-initiated confession of pure and almost revoltingly saccharine love. thanks :-)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was considering using this as the end to another fic I have in the works, but I decided to make that one with a heaping side-plate of Dreadfully Angsty, And By All Means, Miserable Enough To Warrant Tears. The best of both worlds, I guess.  
> Have at it, I hope you enjoy (assuming someone out there has decided to give this a shot)  
> I didn't spend much time on this, but consider this my testing the stormy and hormonal waters of published fiction. Thanks for reading dawgs :-)

"Listen, okay? I don’t need to feel like shit for falling for you. I don’t need to think about you every single day the way I do, and I sure as hell don’t need this- what I feel, whenever I see you, and I don’t need to miss you, not this much, not when I see you every time I close my eyes- not when you’re standing right here in front of me. I don’t.”

There is a silence, a pensive and vacillating silence in which anthologies are composed in the throes of thought, aching and pulsing against the skulls of both men; and both pairs of hands are trembling violently and their busted knuckles are quivering and curled, in taut fists, and both pairs of eyes are glazed with salty tears and sodden sweat and the blood still flowing from each of their hairlines, and their fingertips and the blades in their pockets, and it’s a while before either mouth stirs in speech.

“Dean?”

“Cas-”

And then both pairs of lips are moving, against each other. In brilliant unanimity, soft and dry and desperate.

Teeth clicking together like the forgotten sting of the knives in their coats.

Happy tears crawl sheepishly from the eyes of both men, caressing their cheeks in thin streams, running down their throats and into their faded dress-shirts. They are smiling against each other’s mouths, kissing everything they can get to; struck by heat like lightning, meaningless words ringing in their ears like thunder, their faces covered in storming rain.

But it is a joyous sort of reconciliation, of souls, it seems, and neither could be happier; and for each of them, it feels like something fierce and large and winged is breaking out of their chests and into the chill of the fading summer, where the air throbs with the pervasive pursuit of happiness - sleek feathers carrying them into oblivion, and showering them with liberty.


End file.
